


Tumblr Ficlets - due South

by Nny



Category: due South
Genre: Charity Auctions, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some filled tumblr prompts - the prompt is the title of each chapter</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “have you ever wanted to hate someone?”

The car was dark, and the car was still, and Ray wished he’d had time to get used to the smell, to the gentle fresh-sharp-citrus smell of Thatcher’s perfume. It smelled expensive. It smelled like Stella, shit, it smelled like it cost $5 a squirt, it smelled like it’d been specifically designed to grab someone by the balls and make their life into a living hell. 

Ray prayed, earnest and sincere and like he hadn’t prayed since he was maybe five years old and his mom still hadn’t given up on cramming some good old fashioned Catholic values inside his head. He prayed he could keep quiet, he prayed for some goddamned thing to happen, he prayed for a freaking _shoot out_ if it’d - 

“You ever wanted to hate someone?” he found himself saying. Because how much easier would it be if he could hate people? If he could hate Stella and peel her out of his life, if he could hate Fraser and his face and his uniform and his never say die, if he could hate the way the mountie’d fought his way into his stomach and set up shop there. 

“Hate is a waste of emotional resources,” said Thatcher, and Ray snorted, bitter, and caught a little in his throat like it didn’t know what the hell emotion it was supposed to be. 

“You ever,” he said, stupid and too-honest, “you ever feel like you don’t know who you are?”


	2. “You can’t protect me.”

No one had been able to persuade Fraser into a tux, which was a damn crime, but the suit was devastating enough and Thatcher’s eyes had lit up like jackpot. He kept fiddling nervously with the bright red tie, yanking it all out of place, and Ray grabbed his hands and forced them down to his sides. 

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” 

He smoothed it back into place, more than he needed, more than was really necessary, just for the easing of the tension Fraser’d been holding in his shoulders practically since this damned charity auction had been announced. 

“Thank you, Ray,” and that was bad for his stomach, that little smile right there, that was was bad for his nerves and his knees and his, what’s it, lambada. He eased a little closer, looked up at Fraser through his eyelashes for the way it made the man’s eyes darken, how it made him no good for anything else. 

“You want me to take ‘em on you just let me know,” he said, and Fraser attempted to look shocked and appalled but his mouth was twitching. 

“Not a one of them is under sixty years old, Ray,” he said, stern. 

“Right,” Ray said, grinning, bouncing on his toes, “so easy win is what you’re telling me.” 

“You can’t protect me,” Fraser said, and he was mostly kidding, Ray knew his kidding voice, but there was a trace of discomfort that had Ray leading him closer to the wings, backing him just shy of the edge of the stage. 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Ray said, Chicago tough guy, and he caught Fraser’s startled chuckle on his tongue. This - Jesus, this never got old. He slid his hands into Fraser’s hair, crinkled up that sleek smart ‘do, and when he pulled away Fraser’s lips matched his tie and his cheeks and his expression was all sorts of filthy. 

They were going to make a _mint_.


	3. “Please don’t argue.”

Ray’s hand snapped out, stopped inches in front of Benton’s chest, all of his long fingers spread wide as though to disperse the energy that constantly vibrated through him, heightened by the fury that ticked in his jaw. In the back seat, Diefenbaker whined faintly, but Benton took petty satisfaction in the fact that Ray’s pale eyes didn’t even flicker away from the road. Safety first; one of his lectures must have taken root at last. 

“Don’t - do _not_ argue with me on this, Fraser,” Ray said. 

Benton bit down on his first instinctual response, his second; he considered and discarded several approaches before settling on one that might prevail in Ray’s current mood. 

“If you would just - “

“No.” Flat, without consideration, his hand flattening in front of Benton’s chest and pushing down slightly as though he were physically suppressing any argument that might be made, even though the faint grinding of gears suggested it really ought to have moved by now. It was almost as if he could feel the heat coming off it, Ray’s anger distorting the rules of physics enough that serge was inadequate barrier, and he found himself swallowing hard. 

“You would,” he found himself saying, low and bitter and alarmingly, painfully transparent. “ _You_ would without thought, and I don’t see how -”

“I have a _gun_ , Fraser!” Ray’s teeth clicked together, the tension in his jaw strung tight like wires, and he gunned the engine and slid between two cars and onto the shoulder, pulling up with a screech and a slam of his palm on the steering wheel. But his eyes, when he turned his head, showed none of the anger. 

“Please,” he said, and Benton’s breath caught in his lungs, in his chest, something stuttering out of time at the look of almost desperation in Ray’s pale eyes. “Please, okay, Fraser? Please don’t argue with me on this.” 

His voice broke a little on the last word and it was followed with a stream of low profanity that settled low in Benton’s stomach, tugged at him like a fish hook. 

“I won’t,” he said, unsettled and concerned and reaching out to place his hand on Ray’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ray, I didn’t mean -”

“Yeah, you never mean,” Ray said, hopeless and struggling to scrape the annoyance back onto his voice, spread thin and showing cracks. He pinched the bridge of his nose and Benton, daring, allowed the movement of his arm to slide his hand closer to Ray’s neck, allowed his finger to gently brush against the warm skin. (He waited for ‘buddies’, for dismissal, for another sign that he had misinterpreted and misread). 

“Fraser?” Ray said, and Benton tentatively labelled it as hope. Desperately, desperately reflected it. 

“I - “ he adjusted his position, slid his hand around to the nape of Ray’s neck, exerted the slightest pressure. “Is this - ?”

 _Please_ , he thought, _please don’t argue_.


End file.
